


I'd Kiss You With The Antidote

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon!CC, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 01:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12665673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: Chris sees Darren's performance of Teenage Dream in Toronto, and the best way they deal with the pain is when they do it together.





	I'd Kiss You With The Antidote

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a prompt asking for the aftermath of Confirmation Day and Darren’s performance of Teenage Dream in Toronto. 
> 
> Of course, since I can’t stay away from angst, get ready to read a fic that’s absolutely doused in it, but I promise there’s a happy ending. The title is my favorite lyric from Darren’s blatantly obvious CC song, “I Don’t Mind”.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of Mia and the assistant, as well as issues with alcohol.
> 
> Comment and tell me what you think! Enjoy, my lovelies!

A/N : I wrote this with Safe Inside by James Arthur and One by Ed Sheeran on repeat, go listen along with it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TtgkKZNTa8) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix9NXVIbm2A).

 

Chris had known even before he saw the video that something was wrong. Last night, he’d woken up  from a fitful sleep, sweaty and shaking, stomach clenching with a phantom ache. He’d shrugged it off, blaming the fact that he wasn’t sleeping with Darren’s comforting presence next to him, and tried to go back to sleep.

 

Now, as he watches his laptop screen, it’s not his stomach that clenches, it’s his heart. In the video, posted barely an hour after the event itself, Darren is hunched over the piano, the tendons in his neck prominent from the force he is putting into the song. His shoulders and thighs are tight and tensed and his expression masks nothing.

 

It’s breaking Chris’ heart.

 

He can’t bear to watch any more, to watch Darren pour his soul into _their_ song with such sadness. He couldn’t manage last year, when Darren was performing it live for an episode of the show, and he can’t now. That song is meant to be tipsily strummed out on the burgundy couch in their living room or whispered in his ear in bed.

 

Not like this, not when Darren is so close to tears that the words break and his fingers slip on the keys.

 

Chris _knew_ yesterday had been a bad idea, even though he and Alla had planned it perfectly, down to the last camera and clutch of fingers. His assistant had been perfectly cooperative as well, performing the charade with him with a knowing grin. Thousands of miles away, Darren had done his part too, ‘admitting’ that he was in a long-term relationship with a woman.

 

The two tasks were worlds apart. Chris only had to lie about who he was dating. Darren had to lie about part of his _identity_.

 

His hands fumble for his phone, mentally calculating the time in Toronto. It’s half past two in Paris, Darren should be awake by now, since he’s flying to Michigan later in the day.

 

The call is answered abruptly, and there is solid silence on the end of the line.

 

“Dare…?”

 

“Darren’s not here right now, Chris.”

 

He stiffens at the unwelcome sound of Darren’s manager’s voice on the end. “Where is he? Why do you have his phone?”

 

“He’s not in any capacity to answer the phone.”

 

Chris bristles with anger and disbelief as he hisses in reply, “Are you _seriously_ trying to prevent him from speaking to his own _boyfriend_?”

 

He can almost hear the manager wince on the other end at the emphasis on his words. “He told me not to let him call anyone, especially you-”

 

A voice interrupts him, loud and raucous and unmistakably _Darren_.

 

“Is he _drunk_?”

 

The silence in response tells Chris everything he needs to know. “Give the phone to him. _Now_.”

 

There is a huff of resignation, a muttering of words and then suddenly Darren’s voice is on the line, familiar and comforting and   _home_ , even in its slurred state.

 

“Heyy gorgeouss…”

 

Chris sighs, unable to stop the rush of solace that floods through his body even though he is _monumentally_ worried. “Why are you drunk at eight ‘o'clock in the morning?”

 

“There was a party after the show last night? Actuallyy, it kinda started at like three in the morning, but I sstarted drinking _reallyy_ late, but Canadians are _soo_ nice and they kept giving me drinks-”

“You’ve got a show tonight,” Chris says softly.

 

“I’ll be hungover as fuck but it won’t be the first time,” Darren replies dismissively, and he can almost _see_ him wave his hand as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, curls flopping haphazardly into his shining eyes.

 

Chris knows how Darren gets when he lets his thoughts run wild without anyone there for him- they fester and eat him from the inside. Darren has a penchant for drinking to forget, to escape from the gilded cage that his life has become. He’s spent countless nights after parties or events, peeling off Darren’s booze and sweat soaked clothes, coaxing Oolong tea down his throat to calm his churning stomach and curling around him protectively when the drunken laughter inevitably turns to tears.

 

But Chris also knows that Darren takes his performances more seriously than his life, living and breathing for the music and its audience. He wouldn’t risk tainting his show, doing only half as well over something as irresponsible as day drinking, unless it’s _bad_.

 

“Dare…”

 

“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?” Darren whispers, suddenly serious.

 

Chris blinks back tears that he hasn’t known have surfaced. “I’m just worried about you. Yesterday was-”

 

“Yesterday happened. It’s over. I’m fine.”

 

There is a sudden muffled smash of glass and Chris flinches reflexively. Someone yells in the background and the line crackles.

 

“I gotta go. Enjoy Paris, Chris.”

 

He opens his mouth to say goodbye but the call’s already been ended. He stares blankly at his lock screen, an image of Darren sprawled and sated on his bed staring back at him. It feels like it’s taunting him.

 

There’s nothing Chris can do but wait. Darren will be busy all day (if he’s not still drunk, that is), and Chris has a conference in the 1st _Arrondissement_. His fingers fidget for his phone all day, itching to contact him, but he doesn’t want to be clingy- he should let his boyfriend breathe. It’s the old insecurity creeping back, the fear that he’s not wanted, that he’s being a pain, that everyone’s lives would be better off without him. Darren is the first person who’s truly made him feel loved and needed, and maybe it’s selfish, but Chris can’t lose that.

 

It’s midnight when Darren finally texts him. Chris is sitting in his hotel room with Alla, sharing a box of _pain au chocolat_ and bingeing on _Queer As Folk_ when his phone vibrates on the comforter. It’s a one word question.

 

_Baby?_

 

Alla raises an eyebrow at him as he scrambles to reply, and he knows it’s disapproval he sees in her eyes when she catches a glimpse of the contact name.

 

“I’m sorry, I-” Chris gestures down to his phone. She nods in understanding and reaches over for another pastry before turning back to the TV screen.

 

What’s wrong? Are you okay?

 

_We arrived at the venue an hour ago. Everything’s going fine._

 

That’s good.

 

_Can I call you?_

 

Of course.

 

Chris picks up on the first ring, and Darren’s tired voice fills his ear. “Chris… god, I’m so sorry about this morning. I was stupid, and irresponsible as hell, but I just wanted to- to-”

 

“To forget, I know.”

 

There’s a soft sigh, and then to Chris’ distress, a choked sob that’s hastily disguised as a cough.

 

“Dare? Sweetheart, talk to me,” he urges, shaking his head at Alla when she looks at him questioningly.

 

“I miss you,” comes the barely there reply.

 

“I miss you too,” Chris breathes.

 

“It’s just so _hard_ . A-after yesterday everything kind of felt finalised- we’re going to be doing this everyday for _god_ knows how long, being apart and not getting to see each other for _months_ on end. What happens when the show ends? What happens when we don’t have that one thing tying us together?”

 

Chris brings his hand up to his chest, pressing down on his heart as if he can physically stop it from hurting. “Nothing’s going to change. We’ll still be us.”

 

“You can let me go if you want.”

 

The words are so quiet that Chris barely catches them, but he does and it hurts even more.

 

“Stop, Dare. We’re not going through all of this for nothing. As long as I get to be with you, to call you mine, I’ll go through anything. Please believe that.”

 

“Okay,” Darren whispers.

 

“And besides, isn’t this kind of like the movies? With the whole forbidden romance and the fake relationships? We’ve got a more dramatic love life than half the celebrities in hollywood. **”**

 

Darren laughs thickly. “I don’t want a dramatic love life, I just want _you_.” He pauses. “When are you back?”

 

“Three days after you are. And then we’ve got a week and a bit together before you go off again.”

 

“A week and a bit.”

 

“Yes. So hold on, okay?” Chris tries to sound strong, tries not to let his voice waver and betray himself.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Bye, darling. You’ve got a show to put on.”

 

“Bye, Angel.”

 

Chris’ fingers tremble as he ends the call. He looks up to see Alla staring at him, her head tipped in sympathy.

 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, before she can say anything, probably along the lines of ‘ _I told you so’_ . He reaches for his fourth _pain au chocolat_ and prepares to wait out his insomnia.

 

 

* * *

 

Chris comes home to an empty house. The light on the landing is on, and Darren’s Italian loafers are strewn across the doormat, but the air is thick and heavy with silence. He lets himself hope that Darren’s in his bed when he goes upstairs (as he should be, it’s _late_ ), but that’s empty too. Someone’s definitely been sleeping there though. The sheets are unmade ( _“why make the bed if you’re just going to get back into it?”_ ), and there’s a pair of glasses on the nightstand.

 

Chris settles on the couch instead, unable to sleep upstairs without Darren there with him, and he curls up with Cooper at his feet. He’s prepared to wait all night, armed with cinnamon roll pop tarts and Season 2 of _Outlander_ , but he barely makes it to the second episode, sinking inevitably into a long awaited sleep.

 

A loud clatter startles Chris awake. Immediately he’s up off the couch, blinking at the time on the wall ( _03:28_ ) before rushing out into the hallway. Darren stands there, one hand braced against the wall, the other clumsily pawing at his shoelaces. He doesn’t realise Chris is there until he quietly pads over to him, stilling Darren’s hand so that he can untie the simple knot.

 

His surprise should make Chris feel thrilled, and it almost does, until the expression is quickly replaced with one of guilt.

 

“Chhris?”

 

He’s drunk. Of course he is.

 

Chris remains silent, stoically moving to slip the other shoe off, reflexively catching Darren by the waist when he sways and stumbles ( _it shouldn’t be something that’s a reflex, it just shouldn’t)_. He’s got something spilled down his front, the same liquid clumping his hair together, and Chris wrinkles his nose at the sharp smell of it.

 

He somehow finds the words to speak, to say something that isn’t _‘Why are you doing this?’_ or _‘Again, Dare? Again?’._

 

“Come on, sweetheart. Upstairs.”

 

Darren complies, determinedly placing one foot in front of the other as they climb the stairs to the bedroom, taking care not to stumble as if he is trying to prove to Chris that he’s not that far gone. Chris knows better, the glazed look clouding those hazel eyes is plenty a clue. When they finally reach the ensuite, Darren turns to him, placing both hands on his cheeks and leaning their foreheads together.

 

“You’rre early.”

 

“I wanted to surprise you. What’s one more day in Paris when it’s one more day away from you?”

 

Darren grins lopsidedly and leans in for a kiss, missing the target and hitting the corner of his mouth instead. Chris laughs in spite of himself, shoving at him light-heartedly. Suddenly Darren’s apparent quota for voluntary motor control seems to run out, and he sways precariously, clutching the edge of the sink before he can hit his head on the toilet bowl.

 

Immediately Chris’ worried self comes back, and he pushes Darren to lean against the sink, setting to work on the buttons of his shirt since he obviously won’t get anywhere with them himself. He wrinkles his nose at the red stickiness of his fingers as a result.

 

“Ugh, what did you _get_ on here?”

 

Darren looks down in surprise, as if he hasn’t even realised anything was there. “Uh, I don’t... actually know. I kindd of just took whatever Mia got mme.”

 

Chris stiffens imperceptibly. “Mia.”

 

“It was Ricky’ss idea, and anyway, she’s alwayss been a good drrinking partner.”

 

Chris doesn’t even bother to hide his irritation any more, roughly shucking the shirt of Darren’s shoulders and kneeling to forcefully pull down his jeans and underwear in one go. He holds them down so that Darren can step out of them.

 

“Get in the shower.”

 

Darren does as he’s told, using his hands as leverage to step into the glass stall, not before slipping on the still-wet tiles. Chris is by his side in an instant, wrapping an arm around his waist to stop him from falling yet again.

 

“ _Dare!_ ” He admonishes. “You literally almost cracked your skull against the taps.”

 

“Guess that just means you’ll have to get in here with mme,” Darren slurs, waggling his eyebrows.

 

Chris rolls his eyes before peeling off his own aeroplane-stale clothes. He tries to blink away a memory that surfaces at the action. It’s of him stripping off Darren’s vomit stained garments after a particularly bad night, hauling them both into the half-full bathtub, and holding Darren until he fell asleep in his arms. They woke up the morning after with all the water drained out and bruised all over from the hard porcelain of the tub.

 

He can tell Darren remembers it too, or what little of it Chris told him the day after, and he reaches out to smooth Chris’ tense brow.

 

“I’m so sorry, Angel.”

 

Chris doesn’t reply, instead leaning around him to turn the tap on. Darren doesn’t even jump at the sudden rush of water, ice cold before it starts to warm up.

 

“Come here.” He maneuvers Darren in front of him, using his height to easily run his hands through his hair. The water runs pink on the tiles as he painstakingly rinses the red clumps out of Darren’s curls. Chris hooks an arm around his torso to stop him from falling and their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces. Torso to torso, connected from shoulder to ankle, it’s like an equilibrium Chris never knew he needed.

 

He blinks away the tears before they even surface but Darren’s worried hands are on his face in an instant, eyes wide and worried. Chris smiles thickly at how quickly Darren knew he was hurting, but he shouldn’t be surprised- the man could empathise with an inanimate object.

 

“I’m fine,” he whispers, when he meets Darren’s questioning gaze.

 

“You’re not. Please don’t pretend like nothing’s wrong. You- you shouldn’t have to take care of me like this, like I’m some sort of _burden_. You don’t deserve it.”

 

Chris shushes him with a finger on his lips. He has to be strong for the both of them, hold Darren up when he can’t do it on his own, just like he’s done for Chris time and time again.

 

“You’ll never be a burden to me, Dare.” He traces an eyebrow, a warm feeling settling in his stomach when Darren immediately leans into his touch, nosing at the palm of his hand.

 

“Sometimes I think that _I’m_ the one who doesn’t deserve _you_ ,” Chris continues. This isn’t just for Darren, he needs to hear himself say it as well. “When I can’t get to sleep, or can’t seem to find my breath, I think about you, and you ground me. Knowing that I have you makes everything- all the lies, all the heartbreak, all the stress and pain- it’s all worthwhile. I’d give anything a thousand times over if it’s you I get to keep.”

 

It’s truly the best Chris can do in return, because Darren’s heart isn't just on his sleeve, it's resting right there exposed on his outstretched palm- giving, giving, giving and never expecting anything back. He was the last thing Chris ever expected and is now the only thing he needs to survive.

 

The lump in his throat threatens to rise even further, so he pushes it down by surging forward to kiss Darren. The rush of water from the shower and Chris’ words seem to have sobered him up a little, and his lips respond enthusiastically, tender instead of sloppy.

Chris’ mouth parts instinctively as Darren probes further, tongues slotting together with ease as he pushes Darren against the steamed glass. The sudden need for him is overwhelming and almost makes Chris’ head spin with the intensity of it. Darren gasps against his lips and there’s a rush of heat downwards, leaving him hardening against his thigh. Chris knows that Darren has noticed, if the kisses becoming more desperate are telling him anything, and he breaks away to pant brokenly,

 

“Please tell me you’ve sobered up?”

 

Darren grins, tracing circles on Chris’ shoulder. “I can recite the alphabet backwards, if you’d like.”

 

“You were tripping over your own feet not ten minutes ago.”

 

Darren tips his forehead forwards to rest against Chris’. “Yeah, ten minutes ago. I think you kissed all the alcohol right out of me.”

 

“That’s not possible,” Chris argues, somewhat feebly. “No one has that fast of a recovery period.”

 

“I spent a lot of years as a teenager mastering the art of sobering up.” Darren kisses him, once, twice, three times, each one scorching enough to send his heartbeat into a frenzy and his dick twitch against his thigh. “Now, are we going to fuck, or not?”

 

Chris reaches up to the ledge next to the taps, where there’s a bottle of (shower specific, silicon-based- they’re prepared, alright?) lube stashed among the shampoos and conditioners. It’s only once he’s got one of Darren’s legs hooked around his waist and two fingers inside of him is he laughing helplessly into Darren’s shoulder.  

 

“How did we get from practically crying to fucking in less than three minutes?”

 

Darren snorts and rolls his eyes as best as he can with someone’s hand between his legs. “When are we _not_ fucking, Colfer- ah!”

 

Chris adds a third finger without warning, crooking them so that they’re brushing up against the bundle of nerves that has Darren whining helplessly, nails digging into the skin of his back. The head of his cock shines wetly, caught up between their torsos, and it makes Chris’ mouth water.

 

He drops down to his knees, keeping his fingers still in Darren’s body while he noses at the base of his cock. The skin here is softer than the skin on any other part of Darren’s body and smells intoxicatingly of him as well. Chris laves the shaft with tiny licks, working his way upwards until he’s got the tip of it in his mouth, tongue tracing the ridge. Darren jerks and his hands scrabble for purchase, one threading through Chris’ hair and the other slamming against the glass partition, the sound of it reverberating through the shower.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , baby, I won’t be able to- ah- last...!” Darren grits out, and Chris gives him one last suckle before getting back off his knees, taking his hand with him. The emptiness leaves Darren clenching around nothing, and Chris _aches_.

 

“In me- in me _now_ , Chris,” Darren babbles, hooking his arms around Chris’ neck as he slowly maneuvers his slicked-up cock into Darren. The tight ring of muscle gives after a little resistance and they both release long breaths as Chris bottoms out. The thick heat of him is sudden and overwhelming, and Chris’ knees almost buckle with the intensity of having Darren surround him like this.

 

He takes a moment to let Darren adjust to the inevitable burn and stretch, and then hikes up his legs around Chris’ waist so that he’s pressed up against the tiles, steam from the shower rising around them. Slowly, slowly, Christ begins to thrust, savouring the almost pornographic slap of Darren’s body hitting the wall as they move together. Pleasure spikes up his spine and and he can’t tell if the rivulets running down his forehead are sweat or water.

 

Darrens head falls back against the tile and a flush spreads down his chest, letting out a gasping _uh uh uh_ as he squeezes his eyes shut and lets Chris take him. He’s only ever quiet during sex when it’s like this- sweet and slow with Chris leading and taking care of him.

 

Darren hooks his ankles tighter as Chris increases his pace, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against his neck as he angles his hips in a direction in which he knows will hit Darren’s sweet spot perfectly. It’s sweaty and wet and messy and _perfect_ and Chris’ thrusts grown more stilted and frantic the closer he gets. He drops one of Darren’s knees in favor of reaching down to grip his cock, which is pressed up between them and smearing their stomachs with precome.

 

Darren bites his lip so hard that it draws blood, and Chris leans his forehead against his shoulder as the familiar coil of heat tightens in his stomach.

 

“Let go, sweetheart,” he pants, twisting his hand and stroking once, twice, before Darren comes with a cry, in thick ropes between them.

 

It’s enough to send Chris over the edge, releasing hot and hard into Darren, and the overpowering spark of pleasure that floods through his body really does make his knees give way this time. They slide to the floor in a messy heap, delirious and loose limbed, Chris’ body curled around Darren’s as they try to catch their breath. The water’s now tepid, and it falls around them like rain, the rhythm of it against the tiles beating in time along with their hearts.

 

Darren’s laugh suddenly echoes through the shower and Chris looks up blearily from where he’s buried his face in Darren’s hair.

 

“Thank god for your biceps,” he says in explanation, and Chris groans, seeking out wet black curls again.

 

“You _should_ be thanking me, I’m the one who did all the hard work.”

 

Darren laughs again, running his fingers up Chris’ spine to tangle at the base of his neck. A tender kiss presses against his forehead, warming him down to his toes.

 

“You’re the best gift life ever gave me,” Darren whispers, and Chris just smiles.


End file.
